Power Trio

The wooden branches snap and hiss as the moisture burns off them, and the bonfire grows. They’ve gotten as many Voraags out here as they dared without raising suspicion from Anise.

Magic needs energy to work. You siphon it from somewhere. Back on Earth, where they have an electrical grid, this part was cake. Here it’s backbreaking labor.

The sun’s gone down and they’ve got emergency lights set up to illuminate the outskirts of the forest. The cold light of the two moons bleach the night. Nick hacks down what boughs he can, which, compared to his musclebound packmates, isn’t much.

His hatchet bites into a deceptively tough branch. He yanks it from the bark and is about to sink it again when a hand lands on his arm. One of the other Voraags, Parag. “Let me.” He reaches out and wrenches the limb, stripping it loose.

“Thank you.”

“Porwe’ka.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s thank you.” Parag shoulders the branch onto the bundle he’s lugging. “Gonna be useful if you don’t get banished after all this.”

Dee is back at the bonfire, holding Graila and watching the flames. She glances at Nick as he deposits his pittance of kindling. Those big inquisitive eyes are glazed over with indignation and worry. “This don’t work, we’ve wasted a lot of time.”

Nick straps on his guitar. “It will.”

“Don’t know why we’re giving you this chance,” Graila snarls. “They told me you ended up crossing over trying to light a damn match.”

“They told you right. The fire-lighting incantation—that one I’ve only managed once.” Nick twists his machine heads into place, tunes to his low E. “But every incantation is its own thing. You start all over. It’s like weight training. You need reps to improve.”

“How many reps you have with this one?” Dee asks.

“Lost count. Around fifty, if I had to guess.” He cracks his knuckles.

“Fifty times?” Dee’s jaw unlocks in disbelief. “I thought you were an amateur.”

“Everyone assumed, and I didn’t correct.” He plays, gets the chords under his fingers. “On Earth, I made most of my money this way. Catch a bullet and it’s a no hospital, no questions type situation? That was when you’d come see me.”

He chops out a tempestuous minor key progression. He shouldn’t be revealing this. If he hadn’t, she might have just kicked him out of the pack and the whole death for betrayal thing would have taken care of itself. If he auditions for Legendary, if he makes himself useful to them, he won’t need Dee’s help to keep him here anymore.

This was the wrong move. But Graila shifts and groans and despite how cold she’s been to him, he can’t regret it. They’ve gotten the quills out, but she’s still bleeding through her field dressing. This incantation only works on fresh wounds and it does nothing to clean or disinfect. Hopefully, Warrin did his part.

“You patched up crooks?” Dee’s looking at him as if for the first time.

“I was a crook.” No use hiding it. “Bardic services for the criminal class. Cracking uncrackable safes and demagnetizing metal so detectors wouldn’t detect. But this was the most popular offering in my catalogue. Most Earthlings don’t want magic until they need magic.” He points at the barrel-shaped hand drum they’ve brought. “Get that drum over here.”

Parag sets it down next to the fire.

Nick nods at Dee. “Play that.”

She looks like she’s about to chew his head off for giving her an order, but she gets behind the drum.

“Play off my tempo. Doesn’t matter what. Just focus on your intent. On fixing Graila.”

She slaps the rim of the drum to create a sharp tak and lands her palm on the boom in the middle. She hammers out an aggressive rhythm, unloading her helpless anger into the barrel drum. She’s not lacking for intention. Good.

He opens his mouth and sings.

This incantation was in elvish when it landed in his lap, and he’s kept the lyrics the same. It’s a paean to stolen love, sung by a spurned princess out of some musty old mystery play. He doesn’t speak the language; he doesn’t need to. The music is the message, the universal pulse.

Normally he plays this in delicate fingerstyle. No use trying that with Dee’s ferocity fueling the beat. He strums with his nail aping a pick and bolsters his lamenting lilt into a throat-stripping wail of lamentation. The bonfire crackles and blazes.

And as Dee hisses air through her tusks and pummels out her fury, he sees the weave.

And as his voice catches and cracks with feeling, the fabric loosens. With the silvery sound of his steel strings, he unravels the world.

Draw it tight. Pull the spell taut. The fire extinguishes instantly, as though a monolithic pair of fingers has pinched it out. The cold reasserts itself with biting abruptness.

The power pours into him. It vibrates his teeth, pushes behind his eyes. It wants out. He clasps Graila’s bloody hand.

“Mend.”

Graila’s eyes shoot open. Her body thrashes as she issues a keening scream. He hears the drum fall as Dee stands. “Back,” he commands. “Back up. It’s working.” His grip tightens. He’s never been on the receiving end of this spell and would never want to be.

Graila’s arm drops limply back into the snow. Below the shredded hide of her jacket and the layer of dried blood, the exposed meat and bone has sealed. New scar tissue shines pale against her pine needle skin.

She pats the re-knit flesh. “That fucking hurt.”

He stands and pulls at her newly mended limb. With consternated wonder on her face, she tests her arm, finds it good as new, and lets him help her to her feet. He squeezes her hand before he breaks his grip. “You didn’t shit yourself. That puts you in rare company.”

He feels himself boxed aside as Dee rushes the huntress, pulls her into a tight embrace. She says something in strained, guttural packtongue. Graila holds her back. They break the hug and Dee spins on her heel to Nick.

“You.”

His chest clenches.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t follow your orders.”

“Will you do that again?”

“Never. Never, packmistress.”

She takes two steps toward him and folds him into a bone-crushing hug of his own.

“I thought you were going to die,” he whispers.

“I know. I know.” She rubs his back. “You’re brave. And fucking powerful. I didn’t know. My brave, powerful kragk’megk.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means ‘Dumbshit.’”

“I’m sorry.” He starts to break away from the hug, but she won’t let him. It’s like pushing against a stone pillar.

“Apology accepted.” She finally lets him loose. “You’re coming with me. We’re turning in early. First few times you use your tangr’ak like you did, it crashes you out.”

“I don’t feel crashy.”

“You will.” She turns her attention to the pack, barks out orders in packtongue. Before they get a few steps out of the clearing, there’s a solid tap on Nick’s shoulder.

He turns. Graila is standing there, giving him an appraising look. “I saved your life,” she says.

“You did.”

“You saved my arm.”

“I did.”

“You want to call that square?”

“That’s a bargain for me, an arm for a life. I’ll take that.”

“Except you owe me a jacket.” She raises her sleeve, which has been reduced to sad confetti.

“So nearly square.”

“Nearly.” She nods. “All right, Voraag. Tei mok Torak.”

“What’s that?”

“Strength and Victory. And you say Torak mok Tei. Then we part.”

He shoots her a brief salute. “Torak mok Tei.”

Dee leads him back to the camp, which is in a state of partial disassembly. They’re moving on in the morning, to the next spot on the tour.

“You were hiding how good you are at magic from me.” Dee states it plainly, without malice. “Why?”

“I thought it would lead to questions,” he says. “I didn’t learn the usual ways or use it for the usual things. I want your trust.”

That’s more or less the truth.

“No questions from me.” Dee scoots sideways past a couple of her crew as they move a stack of hard cases. “You’re Pack Voraag. Whatever you were before, that’s what you are now. You ever want to talk to someone about your past, I’ll listen. But don’t bother rucking what you don’t need. We travel light.”

They come into Dee’s yurt and she gets the heater started.

As they let the tent heat, they gradually take their layers off. He’s filched an underlayer of clothes, and is going to bed in a tour t-shirt instead of his full tunic tonight.

“Nice threads,” Dee says.

“Thanks” He stretches the design out. A shackled door, its lock busted and a big spooky monster emerging from it. “How’d you end up on the tour with Legendary, anyway?”

“We got trained roadies in the pack,” Dee says. “We know how to move concert gear and set it up. And I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew Anise Cantator, and she went out on a limb for us.” She hangs her gun belt from a hook on the yurt’s center pole. “This is Voraag’s biggest gig yet, y’know. It’s important we get it right. So no talking to Anise about what we just did, yeah?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Good man.” Dee pulls her hat off and shakes out her waterfall of chestnut hair. “I’m glad I’ve got you. An Earth orc will be handy.”

“I’m a half orc, remember.”

“You wanna be a half orc?” She raises a brow as she undoes her tunic. “I’ll call you that if you want.”

He hasn’t really given this thought. A half orc is just what he is. What he was, on Earth. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t care. You can call me what you want to call me.”

“Well, I think of you as an orc, Nicky. I hope you take that as a compliment.”

He does.

“You answer one of mine now, yeah? Question for question.”

“Sure.”

“How long have you played that guitar of yours?” she asks. “How much practice am I gonna need to get that good?”

“You think I’m good, huh?”

She blows a raspberry at him. “You know you’re good, Nicky. Don’t pretend like you’re humble.”

“I’m plenty humble.”

She grins.

“I’m probably the humblest guy I know,” Nick protests.

“No, you ain’t. You don’t need to be. I see how you walk. With those shoulders.” She throws her own back and pulls a stormy, scowling face he supposes is her impression of him. He chuckles at it.

“You’re good-looking and you know it,” Dee says. “And you know magic. Now answer your packmistress’s question.”

Nick does some quick arithmetic. “Twelve years.”

“Aw, man.” Dee sighs. “Guess it’s good that we’ve gotten started.”

He lowers his head down to unlace his boots and when he raises it back up, Dee is taking her shirt off.

“Shit, Dee.” He averts his eyes. “Warn me.”

“Warn you what?” Dee frees herself from the inverted neck hole and shakes her long hair out. “That I’m showing you my tits?” She sits on the carpet and pulls the strap of her sports bra down. “Nicholas, I’m showing you my tits.”

“What?”

“Yeah, man. You incanted, so you get to see my tits. That’s the deal we made.”

Below her shirt, Dee has the torso of a powerlifter; she isn’t slim like an acrobat or chiseled like a bodybuilder, but he can see the wider curves of her functional muscles move under her softness as she shrugs the other strap off. She looks healthy and robust, looks made to hunt and run and fight and feast and bear strong cubs.

She lifts her sports bra, and her big green boobs squish upward as she goes. On reflex, he jerks his vision away, catches just a snatch of them as they bounce free. His heart flutters. His face is hot.

“Nicky.” Her musical voice two-tones it, drags out the vowels. Niiiii-ckeeeee, and he has a burning wish that it was his real name. “I’ve been running you ragged, man. You don’t want your reward? I can cover up if you’ve changed your mind.”

Nick doesn’t reply, just turns around and beholds the most perfect pair of breasts he has ever seen, in real life or otherwise. Heavy, round, and shapely, with flushed nipples firm in the cold. Dee leans forward and they sway as she lets gravity curve a graceful line of cleavage where they meet. They look so impossibly soft.

“You like them?” He’s never heard Dee sound like that, quiet and tender.

“They’re beautiful.” He raises his eyes to her parted lips. “You’re beautiful, Dee.”

Dee swallows. Her breath thickens.

She sits upright, injects her posture and tone with exaggerated ease. “Fuckin’ cold in here, Nicky. You get your money’s worth?”

He flushes. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

She fetches her shirt from the yurt floor and slips back into it. “You about ready to hit the hay? I’m not tangr’ak fatigued like you are. But I’ll stay with you till you’re asleep, and then I’ll come back, okay?”

“Okay.”

He eases into the furs and maintains his usual distance, though it makes him miss his extra layer of insulation.

“Nicholas of Pack Voraag.” Dee sighs. “Enough with the far side of the bed shit, man. I’m cold and I’m grouchy. You just about grew a tail and wagged it when I said you’d be sleeping with me. We can get you your own yurt. But I think you want to hold me.”

“I do.” Nick is surprised at how readily he admits it. “You want me to?”

“A warm body beats a space heater any day.” She holds her arms out. “C’mere. Come keep your mistress warm.”

He slides over to her and curls himself up against her in little-spoon position. Even as sleepy as he’s getting, he doesn’t trust his body to keep things from getting awkward otherwise. She squishes up against his shoulder blades and he knows he made the correct decision.

Dee’s right. This really beats the dry fry of a space heater. He can’t feel space heaters’ heartbeats.

As the fluffy blanket of fatigue settles around his brain, he says, “I really screwed the pooch on my first hunt, huh?”

“You’re done beating yourself up about this, all right? You fixed it. You remember what I told you? If you fuck up and fix it, I’m not tight about it.” She wraps an arm around his midsection. “Next time, you’ll listen to my orders. And next time, you’ll know about quillbears. You’re learning. You remember things pretty good. I’ve noticed that.”

“Okay.” He cozies up to her, forgets his bashfulness to get at more of her warmth. “Thank you.”

“And I’ll tell you what: there’s some good fuckin’ eating on a quillbear. After you fall asleep, we’ll get it butchered, and you’ll try some tomorrow.” She squeezes his stomach. “How about that? Got some meat on your bones. You’re finally eating like an orc.”

“Dude. I’m resisting the urge to slap your hand away.”

She giggles. “Bulking is good. We’re gonna carve Nicky 2.0 outta this.”

Talk of Nicky 2.0 reminds him. “Dee. Legendary want me to audition. They say they need a touring guitarist. Do I need your permission?”

She’s quiet for a while. “You do,” she finally says. “And I say it’s okay. But you’re Voraag first, remember. That makes you mine.”

“Of course.”

It’s a quiet night, quiet enough he can hear her swallow. “Will you say it?”

“Say what?”

“Say that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“All right. Good.” Her fingers curl around his arm.

Saying that should have been easy. It’s just words, and he’s a natural liar. Why the disquiet?

He’s feeling it heavy now, the crash she was talking about. There’s a rocking turn to the room as the fatigue crowds his thoughts out.

“Dee.”

“Yeah, Nick?”

“What do you call it? A fly with no wings.”

“A walk.”

He doesn’t so much laugh as just puff out a drowsy breath of air. “Shut up,” he murmurs. It’s his favorite word to say in packtongue, so chunky and plosive.

She giggles. “You shut up.”

He must have fallen asleep right after, because he rouses for a minute or two when Dee slips out of the bed. In his sleepy haze he touches her arm, tries to keep it wrapped around him, and she’s gentle with him as she teases his grip open.

When he wakes up again, it’s morning. He’s turned around in the night, and her sleeping face is the first thing he sees. Her cheek is smushed against her pillow. A delicate snore comes from her open mouth, past her gleaming ivory tusks. Her hand rests on his side.

She’s beautiful like this.

She’s always beautiful.

He needs to get up and go. He needs to leave this behind, first this morning, and eventually for good. Get your head right. Your real life is waiting on Earth where you left it.

There is no such person as Nicholas Voraag.

But for a few lovely minutes on this bright winter morning, he lays with his packmistress and pretends.